


Business Time

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Wednesday night, and you know what that means...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt based on: _Sherlock/John based on Flight of the Conchord's BUSINESS TIME_. You can view the video [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhN93rFZuJs).
> 
> Obviously, I'm not a member of the BBC or the Flight of the Conchords.
> 
> And special thanks to the team of Shefa, Bluey, Annie, and PJ!

John's fond of routine.

On Mondays, John conducts a seminar on triage at Bart's thanks to Mike Stamford's gentle nudging. He actually rather enjoys it: teaching, that is. Not the nudging. Mostly he enjoys it because he manages, almost every time, to make at least one aspiring student go completely pale, just by his descriptions of his experiences in Afghanistan. 

One satisfying evening, he even managed to make young Dawkins faint. He wonders on occasion if Sherlock is rubbing off on him. 

That thought usually makes him blush. He's never been one for intentional puns. Accidental ones are even worse, in his mind. 

Typically, on a Monday night, John will arrive home with curry, and he will leave some out for Sherlock (who usually isn't home until much later – and John doesn't dare ask where he's been after the memorable incident in the cemetery) and watch whatever crap telly Mrs Hudson's taped for him that evening.

* * *

Tuesdays, Mycroft comes over for a visit, or staring contest, as John prefers to think of it. These can last up to three hours (John's timed it). 

John tries to remember to buy biscuits and make sure there is plenty of tea on hand, just in case Mycroft does decide that this Tuesday will be different and have a cup with him. It never happens, although "Anthea" always helps him with the washing up. 

She's rather good at it, surprisingly, and even brings round kitchen gloves and fairy liquid. 

The rest of the day is given over to Sherlock sulking, playing his violin loudly, or shouting at the television. 

John tries to stick out the rest of the day for as long as he can, but he usually gives up around six and drags Lestrade down the pub to escape the atmosphere of the flat. 

He remembers to take the gun with him or to stash it with Mrs Hudson. 

Lestrade's been good enough to send Dimmock over to confiscate the spray paint, too.

* * *

Wednesdays are John's favorite days of the week, and he wonders if Sherlock's noticed this yet. 

Barring any crises that can arise by virtue of Tuesday's staring contest or by Lestrade's pounding up the stairs to the flat with something that Sherlock insists is "juicy", Wednesdays are given over to a shift in the surgery and then some after-work rugger with some of his mates. 

John admits he's not as young as he once was, and the rugby sessions usually end early. 

Which is fine by him because Wednesdays work in a very special way. 

John comes home, usually about six, and takes a stab at organizing his laundry, which has been sitting, clean, from his trip down to the launderette on Sunday: folding socks and shirts and ironing his trousers. He has to do this downstairs, or Sherlock will come up to his room and try to set fire to things with a lighter and the aerosol can of starch. If he irons downstairs, Sherlock's content to keep an eye on him and update his website. 

Then he sorts the recycling. "Anthea" may help him with the dishes on Tuesday, but she leaves the rest for him. And anyway, Thursdays are pickup days. 

By the time he's almost finished sorting the recycling, Sherlock's snapped the computer shut and is eyeing him speculatively. 

John's learned just to smile and continue his work. 

After the recycling, John stretches theatrically and announces that he intends to "get an early night". 

Sherlock doesn't move from the chair. 

John practically dances up the stairs (or as well as he can dance, perhaps we'll say he's got a bit of a spring in his step) and makes sure that the bedside table is stocked with lube and condoms. He then grabs his usual sleepwear – t-shirt and shorts – and scrambles into bed and unfolds his laptop. 

He's also taken to wearing the reading glasses Sarah made him buy, and while he won't admit it, they _do_ help. 

Five minutes later, he's half-hard and waiting for the sound of Sherlock's tread upon the stair. 

Five minutes after that, Sherlock saunters into the bedroom. 

John ignores him and yawns, closing the laptop and stretching again. 

This is always the point where Sherlock tears off his trousers. Most Wednesday nights he manages to remember to take his shoes off. 

John picks up a book. 

Sherlock hurries out of his shirt and vest and y-fronts, taking a minute to pause, and John realizes he's _posing_ here, before strutting over to the bed. 

"You left your socks on," John comments. 

"My feet are cold," Sherlock says, snatching the book from John's fingers and tossing it to a corner of the room. 

He tears back the covers and John grimaces as suddenly he finds himself wrapped in Sherlock's arms and legs as if the man was mostly boa constrictor. 

The grimace turns to giggles – Sherlock, damn him, knows exactly where he's ticklish. He tries not to remember their first time, just after the pool, when they'd fallen into bed together without discussion, without thought, with abandon, and when, after two minutes, John had come explosively all over Sherlock's stomach and thighs and Sherlock had looked up at him and asked, "Really, John. Is that _it_?"

John had been at some pains to explain to him just why that particular comment was a bit not good. 

"John," Sherlock whispers in his ear as John reaches down to stroke him. Sherlock shudders, his lips practically glued to John's neck. 

"John, it's Wednesday night."

John sits up and pulls off his vest and shorts. He kicks the covers more completely off the bed and straddles the other man. 

The look in Sherlock's eyes always makes him pause: never has _anybody_ looked at him, scars and all, like this. 

But then, he's never made love to anybody quite like Sherlock Holmes, either. 

And he wants to tell Sherlock, _You're beautiful, you're fucked up, you're maddening, you're impossible, you're mine, and I fucking love you, tonight, tomorrow, and every night._

John may be a brave man – but there's no way he can tell Sherlock any of those things without sounding like a complete idiot. Even if he has faced down Taliban, Chinese gangsters, irate exes, and even Harry on a bad day – not to mention Moriarty – he's still not _that_ brave.

John closes his eyes as Sherlock runs his hand up his leg, torso, and chest. John bends and presses a kiss into his palm. He'd like to tell him. And perhaps someday he will. But for now,

"Well then," he says in his best doctor's voice, looking down at Sherlock over the frames of the glasses. "Let us get down to business then, shall we?"

Because he's pretty sure Sherlock at least knows Wednesdays are his favorite.

**Author's Note:**

> A followup to this story can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/199538).


End file.
